


Frozen, Thawed

by penguistifical



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week, season 1 polycule a bit, so I found out there's a Hurt/Comfort week and I want to play in the space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26170891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical
Summary: “Hey, Elias asked me to bring you the casework for…” Tim trails off as he sees Jon shaking at his desk, huddled up and miserable. “Jon?"Sickfic/Misunderstanding/Overwhelmed: A statement about a blizzard has unexpected consequences.Touch-starved/Sharp/Fragile: Helen helps Melanie with her hair.Self-worth Issues/Pretend/Shaky hands: There's a dog loose in the Archives.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 15
Kudos: 332





	1. Sickfic/Misunderstanding/Overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Canon Typical Horror, exposure/hypothermia (not graphically described, but present)
> 
> I don't know if this counts as sickfic truly, but some elements are there...anyway, here we go:

The statement is yellowed and crinkled with age, and there is genuine terror trapped within the sentences and creases. It’s one of the real ones, the kind that Jon doesn’t like to admit exists, and he holds the old papers carefully as he records.

At least this one isn’t about werewolves. 

In fact, there doesn’t actually appear to be any kind of antagonistic monster other than, perhaps, the weather.

He's reading a handwritten account that had been brought to the Institute, the story of a couple who had gotten trapped in their house during a blizzard. 

The snowfall had been charming at first, picturesque flakes drifting down on a quiet evening. The couple’s discomfort grew proportionally with the size of the mounting drifts building up outside their doors and on their roof, higher and higher, imprisoning them under snow. Parts of their ceiling actually began to crack under the weight of the ice, exposing them to the terrible storm. They’d called out for help, of course, but who would be outside in such conditions?

Panicked and freezing, they’d attempted to make a fire in their kitchen. And then...

Jon stops reading with a terrible lurching feeling in his stomach. The last sentence is incomplete because the paper has been burned. The edges of the statement are crisped and blackened. Whether the scorch marks are from the couple’s distant fire or a more recent one, Jon has no idea.

For a brief second, he feels deeply troubled, wronged even, by the idea that somebody has burned a statement.  
  
And then, the terror he’d been viewing through the years rushes to fill him and there isn’t any room to think about anything other than how abysmally cold he has suddenly become.

He is _freezing_. Every part of his body aches with chill, the soreness that comes from shivering for far too long. His inclination is actually to crawl under his desk and huddle underneath, but he doesn’t seem able to move even that far. Jon tucks his hands under his arms and hunches over, shaking and sore, listening to the chattering of his teeth and the whirring of the tape recorder.

He tries to make a comment for the tape, a comforting rational lie about the building’s failing thermostat, but his voice emerges raspy, a harsh whisper. He thinks for a moment about trying to eat a handful of snow to soothe his throat, and shakes his head at himself. There’s no snow, he’s in his office, he’s not trapped in a doomed cottage with a doomed couple. Despite knowing this, his nose is running, his legs are trembling, and his fingers are numb.

Jon has no idea why the experience of the people from the statement has taken over his body, but the fear those two had felt is rapidly becoming his own as well. He feels crushed by pressure to act, but moving hurts and he can’t stop shaking.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by a timid tap at the office door.

“Jon?” Martin calls, confirming the visitor, but Jon had already known who it was from the quiet knock. “Hey, we haven’t seen you outside your office in a bit, so you're probably busy, but we’re ordering out for lunch. There’s a new place Sasha wants to try, so I wanted to see if maybe you were hungry?”

Jon’s throat feels scratched and swollen, as if he’s both been breathing in a blizzard and repeatedly screaming for rescue. He tries to answer Martin through the door, but his breath comes out in a croak - and for a terrifying and dizzying second, is visible in the air as if his office actually is subzero.

“Jon? Do you want anything?” 

He wants _help_ , but he can’t call out, and he’s shaking too hard to stand. In desperation, trying to attract Martin’s attention, Jon slams his fist on the desk as hard as he can.

There’s a soft sound of dismay from the other side of the door, and then Martin’s hurried, “Sorry, sorry, you’re busy, I’ll be going.”

 _Come back,_ Jon tries desperately to call, but only rasps out the hoarse ghost of a whisper. He puts his head down on the desk, curling up as much as he possibly can, and groans.  
  
He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting and shivering when the door finally opens. Tim strides in with an armful of papers, taking a moment to politely knock after he’s already come into the office.

“Hey, Elias asked me to bring you the casework for…” Tim trails off as he sees Jon shaking at his desk, huddled up and miserable. “Jon? Oh, shit.”

Jon’s dimly aware that Tim leaves to call for Sasha, but not before an earnest, “Hang in there, boss.”

Tim and Sasha, and Martin too are soon back in his office. Jon thinks he might see Elias in the doorway for a moment, but he’s not certain.

“Do you have a fever?” asks Sasha, looking him over. “Tim, if he’s sick, don’t get too close. We can get you to the hospital, Jon, don’t worry.”

Jon taps the ruined statement on his desk, trying to convey what’s caused the problem. Tim doesn’t seem to catch the gesture, but Sasha’s eyes light up. She moves to examine the scorched paper, looking thoughtful.

“Problems after you started recording?” she asks, and Jon manages a nod, tapping the statement again. Sasha tugs the paper out from under his hand, carefully not reading. “I think I’ve seen something similar back from working in Storage. Some of the stuff in there…” She shakes her head, and jumps when her fingers brush up against his. “Jon, you feel like _ice_. We need to get you warmed up.”

She folds the statement with purpose. “I’ll go back to the general archives. Tim, come with, I think I know where a space heater is. Martin, can you stay with Jon?”

Jon imagines that Martin will probably leave with the other two assistants instead of spending any time in a room with someone who he thinks hit a desk rather than speak with him.

But Martin promptly steps up to his chair, standing next to Jon reassuringly.

“They’ll be back soon." Martin tells him. "Nothing to worry about. Do you have a jacket or something I can get you?”  
  
Martin’s voice is a strange blend of projected calm and underlying panic. Something in his pose is too practiced. Jon realizes, in a distant sort of way, that Martin must have spent considerable time around a sickbed. He has no idea whose.

“I’m fine,” Jon croaks out in a painful whisper, still shivering.

“You’re _not_ ,” says Martin fiercely. “And I know I might not be the person you want right now, but-”

Jon tries to interrupt him and assure him that’s not true, but grimaces with the pain of speaking. This is going to make recording statements fairly difficult in the near future.

“I’m going to get you something hot to drink, okay?” Martin says, and pats his arm. “Wow, Sasha’s right, you feel like an ice cube. Um, I mean, I’ll be right back.”

Jon blinks in bleary confusion when Martin appears to blur in and out, instantly reappearing with tea. He must have drifted off.

“Did you fall asleep?” Martin asks, putting the tea on the desk and peering into Jon’s eyes. “That might be bad...or is that just for concussions?”

Jon’s hands are still incredibly numb, and he yanks them back away from the mug the moment he tries to pick it up. The hot temperature’s such a contrast that it feels like the ends of his fingers will crisp and burn, just like the statement.

“Can I help?” Martin asks gently, and, when Jon nods, begins to rub his hands, pressing slow firm circles with his fingertips. It feels like heat is radiating out of Martin’s fingers in a vaguely painful and prickling sort of way, but Jon can tell it’s doing him good.

With Martin’s hands wrapped around the mug, Jon manages a slow cautious sip of tea -it's lavender, with honey. The smell and the warmth drive back the fear of the impending collapse of a roof Jon was never under.

Tim jogs by the office, popping his head in to call, “Give us five, we found the heater!” before dashing off again.

“Don’t yell in the Institute,” Jon manages in the barest of whispers, knowing full well there’s no possible way for Tim to hear him. It feels good to say anyway, especially when Martin huffs out a laugh.  
  
“More tea?” Martin asks, and his kindness feels completely undeserved.

“I didn’t bang the desk at you,” Jon tells him, as loudly as he can. It’s a volume that wouldn’t get him kicked out of any library. “I was trying to get help, it was all I could think of to make noise.”  
  
Martin laughs again, but it’s self-deprecating. “And I just left. Some help.”

“No, no,” Jon rasps hastily. “I mean, I’m apologizing. I wasn’t angry with you, I didn’t want you to leave.” The papers still on his desk are rustling slightly with how he’s moving them with his shivering. “Martin, I wouldn’t ever hit something to get you to go away.”

“Oh,” Martin says quietly, and then, “Oh, Jon,” as a tear slips down Jon’s cheek, scalding against his chilled skin. It’s all just a little too much.

Martin raises a hand to brush the tear off but hesitates halfway. Jon closes the short distance between them, resting his head on Martin’s palm with a sigh. Martin gradually stops trying to massage circulation back into him and simply holds his hand, gently running his fingers over the back of Jon’s knuckles.

They sit quietly like that for a bit, not quite looking at each other, until Tim and Sasha burst back into the room. Tim’s triumphantly lugging an old portable heater that he starts setting up in the corner. Sasha’s found a true prize: the other half of the statement.

“I just looked in the oldest boxes and found one with blackish bits at the bottom.” Sasha explains, passing the paper to Jon. “Must be from where it broke in half at the singe.”

Jon reads the second half of the statement quietly, mouthing the words rather than speaking clearly. He’ll have to record this one again later. After learning that the couple escaped, a whispered “Statement ends,” and drinking the rest of his lavender tea, Jon immediately feels better. He’s still freezing and tremendously exhausted, but he feels victorious, as if he’s banished something.

“Jon, you still look chilled to the bone.” Sasha tells him. “Can you come closer to the heater?”

Jon braces himself on the desk and stands, but his legs don’t seem to want to support him. Tim quickly moves to his side.

“Whoops, looking a little unsteady on your pins.” Tim says, catching Jon under the arms before he can fall. “I’ll move you over, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, but no jokes about sweeping people off their feet.” Jon mutters. 

“Who, me?” Tim grins. “I’d never. C’mere, boss.” The title’s said as an affectionate nickname. Tim scoops him up easily, and deposits him gently on the floor in front of the heater. 

To Jon’s surprise, Tim then also drops to the floor, lounging comfortably a measured distance away from Jon. “What, I dragged it all the way in here,” Tim says, in response to Jon’s questioning look. “I want to enjoy it too.”

Martin starts to take a seat across from them, but Tim pats the empty space he’s made. “No, Martin, I left this spot for you, it’s got your name on it. Come sit.” 

Looking rather pleased and just a bit pink, Martin moves to sit next to Jon.

There’s some sort of nudging and smiling from Tim and Sasha, but Jon’s worn out and too tired to parse whatever their joke is. 

“It’s like our very own little campsite,” Tim says, holding his hands out to the heater as if it’s a fire. “I’ve got some great spooky stories, if you want to hear a really good one about a werewolf.”

“I do actually want to hear you tell a werewolf story,” Sasha says thoughtfully. “But tell your second best one. Jon’s not going to stay awake for much longer, look.”

“I’m fine,” Jon says, much more truthfully than before, though still not entirely factual. “I just need a moment to get myself together.” A minute later, he lists to the side and jerks back awake.

“Don’t fall into the heater, boss, we just got you defrosted,” Tim jokes, his concern still apparent. “We don’t want you to burn, either.”

“Why don’t you rest on Martin’s shoulder,” Sasha suggests.

Jon glances at Martin, who nods, still a bit pink for some reason. “Um, yeah.” Martin scoots over. “If you want.”

Jon hesitates. “Listen, Martin,” he starts, feeling like he should try again to apologize, now that he’s regained about half his voice and a quarter of his composure. “I know I can be, well, a bit…”

“Like an old man who’s just had their precious lawn barely stepped on?” Martin supplies. Thankfully, Tim and Sasha are very pointedly arguing about some discontinued TV show, and if they’ve heard that, neither of them comments.

“I was just going to say overbearing,” says Jon, and then realizes he hasn’t actually apologized. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t hit something if I were angry. I’m so, so sorry that you thought that was something I meant for you, that I made you think I would do something like that.”

Martin wraps an arm around him, tugging him to his side. He’s wonderfully warm.

“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin says quietly. “I understand.” 

Jon somehow ends up half in his lap, dozing pleasantly with Martin’s arms wrapped around him. He notes sleepily, snuggling against Martin's chest, that Martin's heartbeat has really picked up.

“You know,” Tim tells Sasha, all mock seriousness. “You were standing pretty close to Jon, you’re probably in danger of turning into an icicle yourself.”

“What, are you offering me your shoulder too?” laughs Sasha.

“Of course,” Tim says gallantly, and grins like a cheshire cat when Sasha snuggles into his side as well. “Martin. Martin, look at me.”

“Yes, Tim,” Martin sighs, but Jon can tell he’s smiling. “I’m right here.”

“Martin, we’re going to give each other a big thumbs up about this tomorrow morning. We’re not going to right now because your hands are full, but: tomorrow morning, you and me, first thing.”  
  
“Tim, come _on.”_ Martin laughs, and Jon can feel the vibrations of it against his back.

“This is so cozy,” Sasha says, stretching out her legs so they’re resting against Martin’s. “We should keep the heater in here for when it’s winter.”

“Can we, Jon?” Tim drawls. “Not a workplace violation?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks, drowsing in Martin’s lap, finally feeling entirely safe. “No, it’s fine.” Tim reaches over and squeezes his shoulder.

It’s more than fine, the four of them sitting together, sharing warmth.  
  
In fact, it’s downright hard to even remember being cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiatus ends next week with jon waking up in the office and saying "haha what a wild extremely long detailed dream I had anyway back to this being a spooky office comedy" ; ;
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all really great and I appreciate it a lot


	2. Touch-starved/Sharp/Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: body horror (helen), implied violence, but it's not on page
> 
> we were season one last chapter, but we're season four now

Melanie’s tired of being treated like she’s made of glass. Everyone’s a little too careful around her these days. It’s not that people are treating her as if she’s fragile. It’s more in line with that there’s something terrible lurking within her that’ll be unleashed if she gets pushed too far.  
  
It’s an attitude towards her that's not entirely unearned, she’ll be the first to admit. 

But withdrawing from the glee of slicing through the behemoths of the Flesh to see distrust and wariness from her “coworkers” makes the come down that much worse. Makes it more attractive to stay submerged in the battlefield daze.

As is, she’s currently sitting alone in the Archives common area, somehow feeling more apart in the large empty space than if she’d been sitting in the smaller office that’s become hers, from whoever’s it used to be. They’re dead, would be her guess.

It used to be that she wielded her anger. Now the rage is wielding her.

“I’m not going mad,” she says to no one. When a chuckle comes out of the darkness, she doesn’t jump or startle, though the laughter echoes and redoubles impossibly around itself. It’s probably not helping her case for sanity any that she finds such a sound somewhat relaxing in its familiarity. “Evening, Helen.”  
  
Helen greets her with a wave, stepping into the light. “Going mad? I rather think that’s my purview. And, no, you’re not.”

“Who let you in?” Melanie asks, half annoyed at having the silence interrupted and half-grateful that Helen’s showed up to keep her company.

The Spiral shrugs. “I’m afraid someone has failed to make a large enough ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign for reality, so I’m in the habit of letting myself in anywhere that’ll have me and a few places that won’t. Who were you talking to, if not me?”

“Myself, I guess.” Melanie hesitates, and then admits, “Maybe Georgie. I’ve been pretending to talk to her sometimes. It helps.”

It helps, but she really, really misses her girlfriend. Phones haven’t been working so well in the Institute as of late, but she’s been calling and messaging when possible. They always text each other little good mornings when they wake up, and good nights before Melanie lies down and stares at the Archive ceiling, waiting for the dark to go by.

Sometimes getting a flurry of heart and ghost emojis sends Melanie to her bed grinning like a fool, but last night she’d missed Georgie so much. She’d ended up clutching a pillow, pretending she was holding someone, and would have needed to wash salt off her face in the morning if she were still capable of crying.

“I see,” says Helen, breaking Melanie out of her thoughts. “Got anything else? That helps, I mean.”

Melanie takes a deep breath and considers the question. Talking with Helen’s often a bit of a minefield, and it’s not helped any by the confusion Melanie feels at genuinely liking her despite...a lot. Although, who knows, maybe with the Spiral the confusion’s a side effect and would be there no matter what.

“I used to like changing up my hair. I used to re-dye and mess with it in between projects and shoots.” Melanie manages a small smile. “It was a bit of an ongoing goof, actually. I’d be back on camera a week later at a new site and make some joke about ghost barbers. I don’t have any of my stuff, though.”

It’d be kind of nice, actually, to cut her hair. Something that’s peaceful, something that’s entirely under her control, something _her_. But she has no dye, has no scissors, and has been trying not to look into any mirrors. There’s something odd about her eyes in the reflection.

“Well,” Helen says thoughtfully. “I don’t have any shampoos, and I’m not sure I’m much of a stylist. But, if you were looking for an alternative to your scissors…” Helen uncurls a hand with a sound like whetting a blade. 

Weirder things have already happened that evening. 

“Sure,” Melanie says, warming to the idea. “Where should we go?”

“Here, if you please.” Helen says, gesturing to a desk. “It gets inconvenient to move too far from my door. And, besides, going to a bathroom would just be a terrific mess. I’ve found that when I look full on into mirrors, it tends to make them shatter somewhat dramatically.”

Melanie climbs onto the desk and sits, back to Helen, and gains a new appreciation for the sharpness of the Spiral.

There’s no sound of snip, no noise at all. The hair parts easily and instantly across the impossibly honed edge of Helen’s hands as the creature of Distortion carefully slices through the ends of her hair.

It doesn’t feel like Helen’s really removing a great deal so much as just going through the motions. It’s strange that it should make her feel so cared for.

“A little more?” asks Helen, tossing the ends of the hair she’s cut into a bin nearby.

“If you don’t have anywhere else to be,” Melanie says, taking the opportunity to run a hand through her hair, feeling the new length.

“Oh, no,” Helen assures. “The action’s all here.”

“Just a bit off the top then.” Melanie closes her eyes, feeling the faint movements of Helen moving with perfect precision. “I’m in your hands.”

“I’m flattered,” drawls Helen, but there’s an oddness to the tone. Well, differently “odd” for Helen, anyway.

“I’m half tempted to ask you for a hug.” Melanie says, before she can stop herself.

“Mm, I don’t do hugs, I’m afraid.” Helen says, winding a piece of Melanie’s hair around her finger in a predictable curl.  
  
Melanie shrugs with care, conscious of Helen’s hands by her shoulders. “Sure, don’t worry about it.”

“Still…” Helen tentatively puts the heel of her palm on Melanie’s back, fingers bending as fingers don’t, edges curled purposefully away from skin. “Yes?”

Melanie sighs and droops her head, slightly shorter hair swinging forwards. “Yes, please.”

Helen kneads in small circles - what else, Melanie thinks, actually entertained. As before, there’s a curious lack of any warmth, as if Melanie’s senses want to deny that Helen is actually there. It’s still soothing, for all that, and she can feel herself relaxing against the gentle touches. 

After a few moments, Melanie sighs, and says, “All right, we should probably stop or I’ll fall asleep out here on the desk. Anything I can do for you? Manicure, maybe?”

Helen laughs and ruffles Melanie’s pleasantly shorter hair with the back of a wrist.

“Holy shit, be _careful_ if you’re going to do that, you’ll give me a buzz cut.” Melanie says, grinning and stock-still. “I mean, I’ve thought about one before, but I don’t want one right now.”

“Well, come to me if you decide you do want one.”

Melanie runs her hands through her hair again. It doesn’t really feel that different, and yet, it’s loads better.

“I will. I think the ghost barber did a really good job this time. Best it’s ever been.”

Helen beams, and her smile seems to stretch across her face and curl slightly at the ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back for doing these days in no particular order and also definitely not on the day~  
> but hey whatever  
> saw "sharp" and I knew it was going to be a Helen day
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all really great and I appreciate it a lot


	3. Self-worth Issues/Pretend/Shaky hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s fine, that’s life.” Martin whispers to the carpet. “Some jobs don’t work out. Some people get fired on their very first day. Things like this just happen, and that’s okay. It just happens.”
> 
> It doesn’t happen to people that don’t lie on their resumes, to people that know enough not to annoy their boss the very first time they meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it still officially the Hurt/Comfort week? no
> 
> am I going to keep going through the prompts because it's fun and I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort? yes

“I know you’re probably having a lot of fun exploring, but please come out? Whatever your name is?"  
  
The dog had run from the lobby to the Main Institute Library, then to the Archives, then back to the lobby, had disappeared for five minutes, and then had emerged to be joyously chased back into the smaller library that’s part of the Archives. The dog, panting happily and waving its tail, is clearly having a wonderful time.  
  
Martin is not having a wonderful time, or even a vaguely good time.  
  
The Archives Library is a room he would otherwise have delighted to be in and investigate, had he not been chasing a dog whose name he wouldn’t be surprised to learn is Houdini for how adept it is at both vanishing and escaping. This library is smaller than the Main Library he’s used to, but labyrinth-like in its organization with intriguing old books and shelves within shelves and bookcases in no clear order.  
  
It’s a place Martin really wants to explore and become familiar with. A place a small and excited dog could do quite a lot of damage in.  
  
He’d been trying to herd the dog back towards the lobby (again), but it’d run into the stacks and then disappeared (again).  
  
Martin has no treats, no toys, and now, apparently, no charm. The dog isn’t coming out, no matter how persuasively Martin tries to whistle and call.  
  
“Dog?”  
  
Thank goodness the place is deserted for the moment. There’s nobody around to watch him shout, ‘Dog?’ to the empty air. It’s true that he could probably do with a bit of help chasing down the excited pet, but this way he won’t have to endure his coworkers watching when he gets dismissed. If they even consider themselves to be his coworkers - he hasn’t been there a full day and he’s done nothing but annoy people. Hopefully they'll let him go back to the Institute Library and not kick him out altogether.   
  
Martin gives up calling the dog for the moment. He sags against a bookshelf and, while he’s at it, slides all the way down to sit on the floor.  
  
“That’s fine, that’s life.” Martin whispers to the carpet. “Some jobs don’t work out. Some people get fired on their very first day. Things like this just happen, and that’s okay. It just happens.”  
  
It does seem to happen an awful lot to Martin.  
  
Things like this don't happen to people that don’t lie on their resumes, to people that know enough not to antagonize their boss the very first time they meet him.  
  
The most he can do to salvage the day is probably try to get fired with a calm dignity. He puts a hand out in the air for a practice, ‘Thank you for your time,’ handshake, and Martin realizes his hands are trembling. So much for dignity. He thunks his head back against the bookshelf and groans.  
  
“What am I going to do?” Martin asks himself, and jumps when somebody answers.  
  
“Do? You mean, about the dog?”

A cautious face, unfortunately not of the canine variety, pokes through the door that leads back to the lobby. Tim. Martin’s seen him around the Institute, but they’ve never talked much.  
  
“Um, yeah.” Martin lies. “Chasing was getting him all excited. I’m trying to call him over now.”

Tim nods and steps in. “Makes sense. I don’t suppose they gave you a pocketful of dog treats at your first day workplace orientation for the Archives?”  
  
“No, they forgot to give me any dog biscuits.” Martin manages a shaky smile. “If I’m being honest, I think they also forgot to give me a first day orientation."  
  
Tim laughs. “Ah, that figures. Come find me later, I’ll show you how to use the system for logging case file notes. It doesn’t make as much sense as the one I used back in Uni, but I programmed half of that damn thing, so I’m biased. Hey!” Tim exclaims suddenly, as the dog darts out from behind a bookshelf.  
  
“Hey, pup.” Tim whistles and pats his leg. “Over here, cutie. Come see Tim.”  
  
The dog promptly bolts in the opposite direction and vanishes into a back room.  
  
“Wow.” Tim says flatly, sounding so offended by the dog’s rejection that Martin can’t help but giggle. When Tim smiles at him in return, he realizes that it'd been Tim's goal to make him laugh. “Anyway. You go get that tasteless animal, I’ll go do damage control. If we can get the dog out of the Institute in the next fifteen minutes we’ll be on good time for you to come get your desk all set up. Then Sasha and I can buy you a coffee or something at the canteen to celebrate your first day.”  
  
“Oh,” Martin says, pleased and surprised. “I really thought…” He doesn’t want to finish that with ‘that I was about to get fired,’ not when Tim clearly doesn’t consider that a possibility.   
  
“What, you thought we wouldn't pitch in with the Dog Situation?” Tim asks as he holds out a hand to help Martin stand. “We’re all archive assistants, we’ll stick together. Now: hurry up and find that dog.”  
  
Tim gives him a jaunty wave and heads back out towards the lobby. Martin walks towards the back room, feeling surprisingly warm.

The warmth vanishes abruptly as he hears the voice of his new boss. Martin hesitates by the doorway and slowly peers in, not wanting to go another round on irritating his new supervisor on his very first day.  
  
To his surprise, Jon is sitting on the floor with his hand outstretched.  
  
“Over here, now. Come on,” Jon calls, soft and coaxing. Martin shakes his head in disbelief as the traitor dog slowly approaches to sniff the hand, tail starting to wag.  
  
Jon lifts the name tag on the collar, taking the opportunity to give the dog a light scratch on the head as he reads. “Captain, is it? Good name.” He ruffles the dog’s ears, and sighs. “It’s a right mess in these rooms, Captain, so there may as well also be a dog. I’m really not sure how I’m going to get all this straightened out.” The dog’s tail beats the floor in a steady rhythm as it leans happily into the ear rubs. “Not that you care, but I haven’t been a Head anything before.”  
  
Realizing he’d better announce himself _now_ before Jon says anything too personal, Martin coughs and pretends to hit his foot on the door as he enters as loudly as possible.  
  
Jon freezes, sitting stock still on the floor - except for his hand, still absently petting the dog. Captain, apparently.  
  
Martin and Jon look at each other, awkwardly away, and then eventually meet each other's eyes.  
  
Jon scoops the dog up and stands, holding him out for Martin to take.  
  
“Bring Captain, I mean, bring this dog outside.” Jon tells him, curtly.  
  
“Okay.” Martin says, quickly taking him. “Sorry about this.”  
  
Jon looks like he wants to say something more, but the dog suddenly worms forwards in Martin’s arms and licks Jon’s cheek. His new boss sputters and backs away hastily as Martin stammers apologies.  
  
"Sorry, sorry, I thought I had him!"  
  
“Look, don’t do this tomorrow.” Jon states. “Or any other day that you’re working here.”  
  
“I won’t,” Martin promises, trying to pack as much earnestness as possible into the words, and holds Captain carefully as Jon nods and leaves.  
  
“ _Good_ boy,” he whispers to Captain. “Ready to go back outside?”  
  
He keeps a firm grip on the dog as he walks him back to the lobby, where he sees that Sasha is waiting. She waves him over to the door.  
  
“Hey, you got him.” Sasha cheers. “Listen, Tim’s outside talking to the owner, he told him the dog just burst on in here but that there’s nothing for him to worry about, it’s all okay. You can bring them out the dog in two minutes.”  
  
“What? Why two minutes?”  
  
“Because I want to pet him, obviously.” Sasha explains, and immediately does, grinning when the dog wriggles in Martin’s arms with joy. “Okay, you can bring him out now.”  
  
Martin hurries out the door. Captain probably wants to be reunited with his owner. As for himself, he’s got a drink to go get with his coworkers.  
  
He wonders if he can invite Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might do one more from the set of prompts but I'm not sure which yet
> 
> thank you everybody who leaves kudos and comments, you are all great and I really appreciate it a lot!


End file.
